I Want to Play a Game
by sebcedes
Summary: A series of games is pitting our very own Glee clubbers against each other. Oh yes, there will be blood. But who's behind it all? Rated M for graphic violence.
1. Chapter 1

A loud _clang_ filled the air of the dark, wet room.

Mercedes jumped in her seat, eyes widened at the sudden sound. She looked around, even though the room's dim lighting conditions weren't in her favor. A thin layer of dust coated a concrete floor while swirls of particles danced in the air, trying to find a place to settle. The only source of light was emitted from a small lamp slightly swaying from the ceiling. The faint yellow bulb seemed as though it was nearly out of juice, but was enough for Mercedes to make out objects in her near surroundings. It reminded her of an abandoned factory; a large vent rested on the wall, a few wooden tables were scattered with papers and tools, and pipes littered the wall, leading to the ceiling.

Then came the metallic taste.

The girl swallowed, feeling a sharp pain in her tongue. It was faint, but she swore she could taste a few droplets of blood. Naturally she jerked, wanting to get up and run away from the scary scene. To get back to her bed and cuddle under the blanket. To wake up from this nightmare and feel alright.

Metal grips held Mercedes' wrists down to the chair, fastened tightly to the arms of the seat. A shrill scream echoed the room, high enough in pitch to cause a few of the windows to vibrate. Her body spasmed, nearly seizing in panic, trying to get out of her chair and restraints. Clamps around her ankles were fastened to the chair's legs, forcing her to stay in the seating position.

A sudden static noise caught the woman's attention.

"What the hell?" she exclaimed. "WHO'S OUT THERE?"

Mercedes squinted, her eyes trying hard to adjust to the light. The only movement she caught was the constant swirling of dust, almost dizzying her. Then a small white light burst through one corner of the room. The girl whipped her head to the side, staring at the source of light. Sitting on one of the work benches was an old, small television with antennas producing nothing but static and white noise.

The diva intently stared at the screen, waiting for something to change. Seconds went by, each one seemingly longer than the last. Then the static disappeared, switching to a black and white scene. Mercedes watched as her body was resting on an operating table, with a hooded figure sticking a metal tool into her mouth.

"WHO THE FUCK IS DOING THAT TO ME," she bellowed, frantically looking around the room. The darkness blinded her, her eyes having been used to the television's white static.

Then the scene went dark. "Hello, Mercedes." The black girl jumped once again, shocked to hear something. Her own name, nonetheless.

The television continued to show a black screen, but the audio continued. "For years in your life you have demanded attention from others. For years, you have wanted people to _listen_. You have cared about one person, and one person in particular - yourself. Tonight, we're going to change that. Tonight, you're going to learn that it's not always you who gets to do the talking." On cue, more yellow lights completely filled the room, revealing more work benches and junk. Mercedes winced at the sudden light, but forced herself to look around. As she panoramically scanned from left to right, the room's paraphernalia caused Mercedes to panic and convulse against the constraints once more. Littering the room was countless jars, each filled with different sharp items. Glass, nails, screws, razors. They were under the tables, on top of the tables, lining the walls, everywhere. Each one had a small timer that blinked to life, revealing a bold ":60" in red, digital print.

"As you can see," the raspy voice continued, "there are jars placed around the room. Your goal, however, is to survive. Do you have what it takes to survive, Mercedes?" The girl's eyes were welling up, trying hard to force back the tears. "In sixty seconds the jars around you will explode, ultimately ending your life. To stop them and to leave this room, you simply must enter the four-digit code into the computer against the wall behind you. If you recall what you saw earlier on the television, you'll find the code etched deep into your tongue. As you can see, there are no reflective surfaces in this room." Mercedes looked around, trying to prove the voice wrong. The jars were discolored and worn, there wasn't a single mirror in the room, and the only window was high above the tables on the second floor. "You'll find a knife under your chair. Will you choose to end your constant carefree talking, or will you choose to end your life? Let the game begin. Make your choice"

Mercedes yelped as her restraints were undone. The hundreds of red numbers started to count down in unison, one high-pitched beep at a time. The girl launched herself over to the only door in the room. It was huge, rusted, had no apparent handle, and was bolted shut. She rammed her body weight against it, to no avail. Mercedes sharply swore under her breath and looked at one of the closest jars.

":52, :51, :50."

"SHIT!" Mercedes darted back to the chair which once confined her, reaching underneath and pulling out the promised knife. Holding the knife close to her mouth, she stuck her tongue out and attempted to angle the knife to where she could see the code, but the knife was dull and unreflective, too.

Out of anger, the girl nearly chucked the knife across the room. "Come on girl, you got this." Oh, how Mercedes wished Kurt was there. Not only would he look in her mouth to get the codes for her, but he'd know exactly what to say to uplift her. "Come on, you got this." More tears had welled up, streaming down the teen's face. There were too many jars for her to hide under any of the tables, and Mercedes noticed that her usual denim jacket was stripped from her prior to being placed in the room.

That meant less layers to block the shards. She shuddered, not wanting to think about the impending doom. "Just DO IT MERCEDES!"

The diva stuck her tongue out as far as she could and placed the sharp edge of the knife against the top. She slowly lowered the knife, causing the blade to press against the mouth's muscle without breaking any skin. Scared, she yanked the knife away from her tongue. "I can't do it," she sobbed, looking at one of the clocks.

":27, :26, :25."

"Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit," she rambled. Mercedes' eyes viciously darted around the room one more, landing on one tool that could help her out. Knife in-hand, she ran to one of the several work benches and started to twist open one of the clamps on the edge of the table. Mercedes chose to ignore the horrible sanitation from the clamp. After all, it was just for wood.

When the clamp was about an inch open, Mercedes bent over and stuck her tongue in before madly starting to twist the knob. The opposite wall of the wood clamp started to press against her tongue, finally pressing it firmly in place. The pinch hurt, but Mercedes tried her best to ignore the pain. In her peripherals, she could see the time continuing to count down. It was do or die.

The knife was once again lifted to her fully-exposed tongue. The foreign metal felt cool and rugged against the skin, but Mercedes held it in place. She had no more time to think. No more time to react. No more time for feelings.

"Uhn," she counted, struggling to form actual syllables.

"Dooh."

The grip on the knife's handle tightened as Mercedes shut her eyes, yelling the last number.

"DREH!"

Before Mercedes could rethink her actions, she started to madly saw the knife back and forth. Pain immediately shot through Mercedes mouth, muffling her screams. She couldn't stop, not then. The girl continued to cut away as the red timers edged closer and closer to the end. Several streams of tears lined Mercedes' face, guiding that morning's applied mascara down to her neckline.

Mercedes gave one last slice, severing the last strand of her tongue from her body. She unclamped the tool and ran to the computer, slouching over to let the blood from her wound freely drip out. On the monitor was four blank boxes, awaiting one digit to be inputted in each. The girl fumbled with the dead muscle before finally finding the numbers literally tattooed into her tongue.

":05"

She typed in the first number, a two.

":04"

The next number, a six.

":03"

The third number, a zero.

":02"

Mercedes' eyes widened in horror at the fourth number, or lack thereof. She could barely make out the tip of one tattooed line, but hadn't cut deep enough to uncover which digit it was.

A familiar face popped up on the computer's monitor, as if in a video chat. Mercedes glared at the person, in utter shock. "VOU DID VIS DUH ME," she shouted, muffled by her wounds.

":00"

Hundreds of beeps filled the room, instantly sending thousands of sharp objects flying. Mercedes' body hopelessly fell to the floor, impaled within nearly every square inch of her body.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Although the two were standing alone in the tiny foyer of Breadstix, Brittany Pierce glanced around, even standing on her tippy-toes to get a better view of the room. Santana Lopez couldn't help but let a small giggle escape her lips, softly grabbing the blonde girl's wrist. "Come on, we're alone. You can hug me."

Brittany let herself get pulled in closer by the other girl, dragged back down to the flats of her feet. Santana's hands moved from Brittany's wrist to her waistline, pulling the two into a tight hug. The blonde nestled her chin on top of Santana's shoulder, forcing the black-haired girl to smile wide.

Mondays were always special for the two. Everyone was always so bummed about the start of another week, but Brittany had decided that her first move as Class President was to declare Monday nights as Breadstix night, so that the two always had something to look forward to at the end of the day, and it started off each week with a bang. No matter how many hugs Santana was pulled into, they were always special.

"I love you, Britt-Britt."

"I love you too, sweetie," Brittany said, each breath lingering on Santana's neck.

The girls parted. Brittany made her way back to her car and Santana stood on the sidewalk, one hand cockily placed on her hip. Even though Lima was a small town, she never trusted anyone. Her routine after dinner was to watch Brittany like a hawk, ensuring that she made it to her car safe and sound. When the cheerleader waved back, Santana blew a kiss in the air and started to walk around the building, where she inconveniently was forced to park her car.

She stuffed her hands in her fur coat's pockets, struggling to remain warm in the cool weather. Santana had probably eaten a wheel barrel's worth of bread sticks, and was ready for the night to end with a peaceful nap before school the next day. Just a few more hours and she would get to see Brittany again. Another smile spread across her features.

Santana veered off of the sidewalk, crossing the small road into the full parking lot. The girl pulled out her automatic car key and pressed one button twice, hearing her car honk two quick beats. Being the only fancy restaurant around, Breadstix was always full and Santana could never remember where she had parked her car in the madness. As she made her way to her car, Santana heard the scrape of leather across pavement, instantly sending her spinning on her heels. Her eyes darted the parking lot, seeing nothing but cars.

Thinking her tired mind was playing tricks on her, the girl shrugged her shoulders and opened the car door.

"You can't be serious, Ben."

"Why? It's the only explanation."

Miranda Teague knelt down, pointing her oversized camera at the disfigured, bloodied body and snapped a picture, sending a sudden flash of white light through the whole room. "So, you're telling me," she repositioned herself to get another good angle of the body, "that there's a copycat killer?" Miranda swept her bangs aside. She loved having her long, flowing brown hair, but sometimes it just wasn't cut for detective work. But her slender face and physique didn't agree with any other hair type, so she kept it long and flowing. Her eyebrows arched up, waiting for her partner's answer.

Benjamin Monroe was Lima's hotshot detective. Despite his young age and being new to the force, he was good, and he knew it. Ben had a built frame, always sported a five o'clock shadow, and a buzz cut. Miranda despised buzz cuts, but it always seemed to fit him. "Do you honestly think that Jigsaw himself has managed to come back to life, move his schemes to Ohio, and target a high school girl?"

The petite woman rubbed at her temple, placing her camera back in its appropriate bag. "I know it seems odd, but this is too," she trailed off in thought, "perfect. The abandoned warehouse. The trap. The video."

Ben let out a large sigh. "I know," he said. "But if it _is_ a copycat, this is their first reported time. We need to find flaws." He turned his attention to one of the boys in blue guarding the warehouses door. "Go tell the team to sweep this room for prints." He started to get up, making his way back to his car.

"And where are you going?" Miranda questioned, lost.

The man spoke over his shoulder, "I'm going to review the tape; see if I can find anything in the audio. If this is happening again, we need to be two steps ahead of the killer."

Miranda tensed. The Jigsaw Massacre had happened years ago with no sign of it returning. The squad in charge of solving the case had met their demise in a horrible fire accident at the police station, and unfortunately none of the clues were traceable. It was a done case. Unsolved, but done. Every detective in the agency had caught wind of it, and every detective had hoped for a case like that to show up at their doorstep. Ben was obviously intent on solving it, but Miranda knew better. Every detective investigating the cases before had met a gruesome end, usually in one of Jigsaw's own traps. She gulped.

"And what do you want me to do?"

Ben faced his partner before wheeling out the door, "Find out who she was close to. The old Jigsaw targeted people he knew for revenge. Prod around."

Miranda nodded. She pulled out her notebook, pointing her pencil at the victim's name and address: Mercedes Jones.

"Alright, guys," Mr. Schuester enthusiastically said with a clap, "Regionals is just around the corner. We've got to start practicing harder if we have any chance of winning."

The students all turned their attention to their Glee Club instructor. Although they all loved to sing, they knew that a lot of work was ahead for them. It meant countless hours of dancing, singing, and trying on new performance clothes. Kurt was ecstatic.

"Mr. Schue, if I may," Kurt started, one finger in the air to grab the teacher's attention. He was clad in typical wild drab; a red knee-length sweater with cream-colored pants to accent it. "While I loved our routine last year, I must say th-"

A wail echoed throughout the small Glee room.

All heads turned to face Rachel Berry, one of the two captains. Finn Hudson, the other captain and Rachel's boyfriend, naturally wrapped one arm around the girl's shoulders to comfort her. She sat in silence, holding back her sobs. Tears were already streaming down the girl's face, her phone clutched in front of her.

Finn had leaned in to examine the phone's screen while the entire room watched carefully. His other hand lifted up to his mouth, covering his shocked expression. However, his wide eyes gave it away - something was bad. Very bad.

"Well, what is it?" Quinn Fabray asked, cutting through the silence.

"I-I-It's M-M-Merc-cedes," Rachel stammered. Her crying worsened and she buckled over in shock, uncontrollably crying.

"She's," Finn cut in, filling in for Rachel, "she's dead."

The room once again succumbed to an eerie silence. Will Schuester placed his briefcase down on the ground and ran a hand through his curly hair. It went without saying that Mercedes was not only a vital member for Regionals, but a friend to everyone in the club. She was there since the beginning. A few people had started to well up with tears from the sudden news, and Kurt had already let out a loud sob.

"Where's Santana? And Brittany?" Tina asked, wiping away at a tear. The two girls usually sat near her and Mike, and the two empty seats were starting to irk her. Other students such as Sam Evans, Artie Abrams, and Noah Puckerman shrugged their shoulders. Apparently no one had heard from the two girls that day. Although it was probably him overreacting, Mr. Schue didn't like knowing that two of his students were missing while such horrible news was just uncovered.

"Alright, class. Go home early. Rest." Mr. Schuester picked up his briefcase and walked over to the door, opening it for his group to leave. "If you need any help, go speak with Emma. She's a great listener."

What started off as a cheerful day had quickly crashed and burned into a miserable evening. The students made their way out of the room, each still in disbelief one of their own was gone.

Santana's eyes darted open. Darkness and coldness greeted her, all cramped in one tiny space. She tried to wriggle around, but found that her movement was restricted. Her body was trapped in something small, limiting any movement.

Wherever she was, she knew it wasn't her home.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello everyone! I can't believe the amount of feedback I've gotten from this. I didn't really plan on too many people subscribing, but I'm honored to have you aboard! Here's the latest addition to the Saw!Glee series. Feel free to leave feedback; I love to hear from you! Xoxo_

The walls felt as if they were going to close in on her at any moment. Santana had managed to squirm around her encasement and get into a standing position, realizing that whatever she was inside offered more height than she had thought. However, her sides were completely blocked off.

"Is anyone here?" Santana mustered with only a squeak of a voice. She gulped; very rarely did anything scare her. After all, she was from Lima Heights and damn proud of it. She could take on three grown men if she had to, but being thrown into a pitch black room entrapped had honestly scared her to death.

A clanging noise forced Santana to jump. She swirled her head towards the source of the noise, however nothing was seen in the infinite blackness. Had she even heard anything? The girl lifted one hand out, barely making it a foot before reaching something cool and metallic.

Another gulp. "Hello?" she asked, this time much louder.

When no one answered, the Latina traced her fingertips along whatever was keeping her entrapped. It curved around in a circle, meeting at the ground. Even on her toes, Santana couldn't feel how high it reached.

Her breath grew sharp with fear. The girl panicked, serving several swift kicks to whatever her foot could make contact with. However, without much leverage, the kicks were harmless. Nothing budged.

She was stuck inside a tube. No way out.

Santana threw her back against one side of her tube. A tear had started to collect in the corner of her eye, but she didn't care. No one was around to see her in a vulnerable state, anyway.

—-

"It just seemed too," Quinn Fabray paused, one hand on her hip and the other swiping blonde bangs out of her face, "quick."

"What do you mean, 'quick?'" Noah "Puck" Puckerman threw his backpack into his locker, slamming the door shut behind him. "She caught wind of the death and reacted."

The blonde arched a high eyebrow, examining Puck. "Seriously, you believe that?"

Puck reached up and twisted his locker's dial, jumbling the numbers before looking back at his ex-girlfriend. "Uh, yeah. You don't?"

"I think it's a ploy."

A glazed look swept over Puckerman's eyes as he looked back in silence. Quinn could tell he had no idea what he was talking about.

"A ploy. A ruse. Trickery. God, Noah."

He quickly snapped out of his daze. "I'm sorry!" A muscled arm reached up to scratch his mohawked head, still a bit confused. "So you think Rachel's evil or something?"

Quinn opened her mouth to speak before seeing a student turn the corner. She glared at the stranger until he passed, leaving the two alone at the lockers. "Okay, seriously. Rachel simply has a devout friend that texts her whenever someone close dies?"

Puck shrugged. "I guess. Quinn, why are you doing this?" He let out a deep sigh, lying a shoulder against his locker.

"I'm just curious is all. We don't know what was on that text."

The boy's eyes flashed wide. "But Finn does!" Puck thought back to learning about Mercedes' death in the Glee Club room. Rachel Berry was an absolute mess, but it was Finn who had delivered the shocking news; he had peeked onto his girlfriend's phone.

Quinn smirked. "Something's going on. I don't like it."

Puck lifted himself off of the lockers, shaking his head. "Rachel isn't evil, dude. You're acting like she's the one who killed Mercedes." He walked past Quinn and towards the school's doors, ready to leave and kick back for the day.

The girl watched as he walked away, waiting until Puck had his hands on the door handles before opening her mouth to speak.

"Just remember, Puck." The jock turned his head, ears perked.

"Rachel can cry on cue."

With that, Quinn clutched her schoolbooks to her chest and turned to walk to her own locker.

—-

"GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Blind rage had taken over Santana. The girl had constantly pushed, punched, and kicked at the tube, all to no avail. "Te voy a mostrar quién es el jefe!" she yelled. A throbbing pain swelled throughout one of her temples, as it did every time she let her anger get the best of her. "Mierda!"

A glaring light swept through the room, instantly illuminating everything in bright white. Santana brought an arm to her face in an attempt to cover her eyes, barely helping. After a few seconds of blinking, the girl composed herself. She examined her tube, lifting her hand once again to feel it. It was made of glass, but showed no scratches or scuff marks where her attacks from earlier were placed. Beyond the glass was a grungy-looking wall, equipped with moldy cinderblocks and chipped paint. Her eyes narrowed, slowly glancing around at her surroundings.

Then she saw another tube, exactly like her own.

Standing within, just a few feet away, was Brittany, clad in her Cheerio's cheerleading uniform. Her face was somewhat swollen, her eyes were red with tears, and she was sobbing uncontrollably, one hand on her tube's glass to keep herself propped up.

"Brittany? BRITTANY?" Santana pounded a fist against the linings of her tube, desperate to go wrap her arms around Brittany. She wanted to pull her close, hug her, comfort her, shush her, and hold her until she fell asleep. Then she wanted to kill the motherfucker who placed the two of them in the twisted scenario. Brittany had looked over at Santana, but glanced away just as quickly. It was as if she couldn't stand to make eye contact with her own best friend.

"Brittany?" she begged. "Answer me!"

It was useless. The tube was apparently soundproof, cutting off communication with the two. Another wave of panic swept over Santana; she had no idea how much air was left in her entrapment. The girl lowered her head, fighting back her own tears. Only then did she realize that she was also dressed up in her old Cheerio's outfit. Crinkles formed at her forehead. The clothes were definitely _not_ the ones she had picked out to eat on their Breadstix date.

Although a long process, and one hard for Santana to watch, Brittany was able to somewhat compose herself. As she wiped away a few dried tear streaks, she pointed up at one of the walls. Santana followed her hand, tracing it to a large digital clock rested neatly on the grunge wall. In large red letters, she read "3:00." Her attention swirled back to Brittany, who had started tearing up again. Brittany held one hand up, clutching a small black box. Santana squinted, but couldn't make out the object.

Santana shrugged her shoulders and dramatically threw her hands out, hoping Brittany would recognize the action as "I can't see it."

She seemed to understand, and pointed to the ceiling of her own tube.

The Latina glanced up at her own roof. Attached to the top was a dangling chain-lever, rigged with a small wooden handle. Taped at the top was a small tape recorder, identical to the black box Brittany was holding in her hand. Santana reached up (more like jumped up) and ripped the recorder off, careful not to touch the lever.

Her thumb lingered over the "play" button. Santana glanced up at Brittany, who was sniffling and wiping away more tears. The blonde gave a few quick nods, urging Santana to listen. Letting out a deep sigh, she clicked the button. A few clicks of static echoed throughout the small chamber, followed by a raspy voice.

"_Hello, Santana. I want to play a game._"

The girl placed a hand on her hip. Whoever had kidnapped the two obviously knew who they were and where to find their Cheerio's costumes.

"_You and Brittany have established quite a friendship over the past few years, even edging into a relationship. You claim that you love her, but inside you're torn apart. A coward. You hide your fear with rage, lashing out at others around you. Tonight, we'll see if you can truly bare to live without her._"

Santana tightened her grip on the tape recorder. She fought to keep a stern look on her face, not wanting Brittany to see her weak side come out.

The tape continued, "_The two of you have three minutes to simply pull a lever. Pull the lever, and you will live. Whoever fails will have their tube filled with a fatal gas, killing them with seconds. Once one lever is pulled, the other will refuse to function. If both levers are not pulled, both tubes will be filled. Can you trust Brittany to spare your life, or do you have the true courage to live without her? Three minutes - make your choice._"

Santana widened her eyes and threw the recorder to the ground, causing the batteries to explode out of the small box.

—-

Both girls jumped when they noticed the red numbers start to count down. Brittany had madly grasped around in the dark, listening to her tape before the lights were turned on. She had composed herself down to only sniffling, her body already dry from tears.

"Santana?"

She knew her best friend couldn't hear her. She knew it was useless. But it felt right. "Santana?"

Brittany took a step forward, as close to the walls within her tube as she could. "Sweetie?" It was Santana's turn to be doubled over, crying uncontrollably. Whenever the Latina finally glanced up, Brittany smiled sweetly. She watched as Santana sighed, mixed with a shocked scoff, wondering how in the world Brittany could smile at a time like that.

The blonde pointed at her own lever, shaking her head. There was no way that she was going to kill her girlfriend, even if the tape recorder said that Santana was dirty baggage and holding her down in life.

Santana's face twisted once again, letting more tears flow.

Seeing the other girl cry, Brittany turned away. She couldn't stand to see Santana, the strongest girl she knew, cry like that. Her eyes turned to the clock, reading "1:32." A minute and a half had already passed.

"Santana!," Brittany choked.

The other finally composed herself and looked back at the blonde.

Brittany pointed at Santana, who instantly started to shake her head while fighting more waves of tears. She then pointed to her own pulley, miming a pulling motion. Santana continued to shake her head, forcing Brittany to yell. "Santana, you have to do this," careful to mouth each syllable.

Santana sent back a mouthed, "NO."

Another glance at the clock. ":36."

Santana looked up at the clock, grimacing.

Brittany, seeing no use in mouthing, yelled, "PULL!"

The other girl glared at her, pointing back. Brittany knew that Santana would rather die than ever see Brittany get hurt. The two had spent too many deep phone calls late at night talking about the touchy subjects like those. Although most went way over Brittany's head, she knew how Santana felt for her.

As the seconds whittled away, Brittany placed her hand on the glass.

Santana rolled her eyes back, trying once again to fight back tears at the sight. As she let out a loud snort, she placed one of her hands against the glass, both facing each other.

The blonde slowly mouthed, "Please."

The darker haired girl shot a look at the clock. Eight seconds. Her gaze went back to Brittany, who was slowly nodding her head.

Brittany watched as Santana shakily lifted her hand, clasping the chain.

Five seconds.

"You can do this," Brittany muttered to herself, watching intently.

Three seconds.

Santana gazed back into her lovers eyes, mouthing, "I love you, Britt-Britt."

Brittany nodded. Although she had conflicted herself numerous times in the past, Brittany could now say one more thing with absolute certainty, "I love you too, Santana."


End file.
